Page 144 of Knotted By my Pack

I turn around. They’re waiting for me at the bottom of the courthouse steps—Cora, Elias, and Noah. My pack.

They don’t ask what happened. They don’t need to.

Cora slides her fingers between mine and squeezes.

Noah grunts, “Told you he’d be a dick.”

Elias raises an eyebrow. “Now wereallyneed a PR plan.”

And me? I just exhale.

Because I’ve lost a father.

But I’ve found something better… a family.

39

NOAH

I’ve built houses with my bare hands. Spent fourteen-hour days laying concrete, hauling beams, pouring sweat into the foundation of other people’s futures.

I’ve broken my back for this town, quietly, steadily. And now I’m running for assistant mayor. The irony is not lost on me.

Lockwood’s face had gone slack when Cora made the announcement.

The kind of angry you can’t hide even with years of political training. He looked ready to burst out of his suit and bellow about protocol.

About legitimacy. About how ridiculous it was that a man with dirt under his nails and zero political experience might take his place. He tried to fight it, of course.

Claimed we were inciting unrest. That the council needed time to verify my candidacy. That appointing an interim assistant mayor through public endorsement was irregular at best.

But the town wasn’t buying it anymore. Not after the stunt he pulled with the paid vandals. Not with Vance Development’s name getting dragged into the dirt. And definitely not with Cora standing like a one-woman revolution in front of everyone.

We left that meeting with momentum on our side.

And now, everything’s moving fast. Through Jake’s help, the council set a special election for next month—under pressure.

They didn’t want it, but they couldn’t ignore the outcry. Not when a dozen fishermen stood outside the town hall the next morning with signs made from old boat wood.

Not when Cora and the guys hit every porch and shopfront with homemade flyers and tight, practiced talking points. We weren’t just some rogue group of mates anymore.

We’re a team. A campaign. A threat to everything Lockwood had built on backdoor deals and bribes.

I’ve had men offer to volunteer crews from my company. Told them no—Julian’s the one with the resort development, not me.

That clarification has to be made almost every time someone gives me a sideways look. I’ve had to repeat it enough that it’s practically a reflex.

Julian’s tried to stop it, made his calls, pulled strings, but his father dug in deeper. Construction’s still happening at the harbor. Steel frame going up like a sore on the shore.

Every time I pass it, I want to tear it down with my teeth. But Julian’s not backing down. None of us are. We’re just shifting the fight.

We canvass every morning. Elias handles logistics and route mapping. Julian plays strategist—clean, polished, knows how to spin a message without making it sound fake. I shake hands.

Talk to the folks who never trusted Lockwood, the ones who stopped talking because they didn’t think it mattered.

I tell them it does. That I’ll listen. That I give a damn. And when I say it, they believe me.

By the time I make it to the bakery tonight, I’m running on fumes. Shirt sticking to me, boots dragging, jaw sore from talking.